


Not Another Cinderella Story

by Hikari_no_Chibi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 16:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_no_Chibi/pseuds/Hikari_no_Chibi
Summary: Meet Gold, the financial wizard behind the DarkCastle investment firm. Gold is looking for a comfortable little tax haven, but instead he finds the micronation of Avonlea - with its backwards ways, bloated nobles, and the Princess with beautiful blue eyes.Meet Belle, or should that be Crown Princess Isabelle, heir apparent to a tiny principality. Belle is a progressive and practical woman, who wants more for her people than the frivolous waste of tax dollars for another Royal Society banquet. Unfortunately, progress costs money, and only Gold has more of it than he knows what to do with.





	Not Another Cinderella Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheStraggletag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStraggletag/gifts).



> An RSS gift to TheStraggletag

Already in a foul mood thanks to three consecutive days playing hopscotch through time zones, Gold’s first mouthful of tepid coffee sent him right over the edge.  His appointment was running 20 minutes late, and he was sorely tempted to walk away.  He could go, get on his jet, and be away from this backwards country within the hour.

“Only a few minutes more, Sir,” said one of the footmen in a restrained voice.

Gold growled.

Out of habit, he picked up his cup and saucer again, to try another sip.  Totally impossible.  He threw it down more forcefully than he meant to, and the cup tipped onto the floor.  Black coffee spilled over the delicate white of the table cloth, and puddled over the pink and blue paisley of an antique carpet.

“No worries, Sir,” said the nasal voice of the ever-diligent footman.  He was already summoning someone to deal with it.

Gold leaned down in his chair and picked up the cup, bringing it to the level of his eyes to inspect it.  A fluted, carved, heavily footed piece of ceramic, with gold trim and a cobalt-blue decoration; obviously quite old.

“It’s chipped,” he said by way of apology, though the liveried boy who was by now blotting at the carpet didn’t give any indication he had heard him.

“It’s just a cup,” said a clipped, female voice from somewhere behind him.  She had an interesting accent.

The footmen snapped to attention, and Gold’s eyes landed on a slim, petite woman with chestnut hair and bright blue eyes.  She wore a pale, yellow dress that looked as though it belonged in the garden, and sky-high heels that came straight out of his private fantasies.

Gold rose to his feet.  “Your Royal Highness,” he said, bowing gently from the neck.

She waved her hand to silence him.

“That’s not necessary, thank you,” said Princess Isabelle.  “I’d rather we keep this informal.  You may call me Belle, or failing that, Miss French.”

She extended a well-manicured hand to him, and then hesitated.  To his horror, Gold realized he didn’t know what came next.  The palace had sent him a protocol sheet when he’d met with Prince Maurice several months back, but Gold hadn’t paid overly much attention to it even then.  They were the ones who insisted on a lot of fuss and worry for nothing; if they also insisted on doing business with DarkCastle, they’d just have to bloody get over themselves.

Now, in the face of this, he wished like hell he’d memorized it.

“And I shall call you…” Her voice ended on a high note.

“Erm, Gold,” he answered, a bit off balance.  “Just call me Gold.”

She shook his hand then, nearly catching him in the chin as he leaned forward to offer the customary brush of lips against knuckles.

“Right,” said Gold, snatching his hand away. “Informal.”.

He did not do informal.  Casual dress at the Gold house constituted a 3-piece suit, with tails and white-tie reserved for formal occasions.

“That is my preference,” she said, taking her seat.

“The Prince Regnant and I had intended to discuss some of the Parliamentary objections to my proposal.  I think you’ll find the situation is perhaps a bit complex for an informal--”

But the Princess had completely ignored him, opening a leather-bound folder of documents.  One of the footmen stepped forward to pour for her, but she took one look at the swill in her cup and sent it back to the kitchens.

“A fresh pot, I think,” said Belle.  “And shall we try the tea this time, Gold?  Coffee really ought to be Italian, Turkish, or nothing.”

“What? Oh, yes, please,” he stammered.  If this was Avonlea’s favored negotiation terror-tactic, then it was spectacular.  He was no green boy, but Fabian had retreated from Hannibal in these same mountains, and Gold knew when he’d been outmatched.  

“As I was saying, I think you’ll find the subject matter a bit dense for--” But she cut him off.

“Mr. Gold,” she said, “I have no passion for finance, it’s true.  But I possess three degrees from the finest universities in Europe and Britain, and I’d like to discuss this sale. Informally. With you”

Gold’s eyes narrowed.  A poor boy from Glasgow may not know how to speak with a Princess, but he spoke hard-ass with great fluency.  If they’d called Margaret Thatcher the Iron Lady, then Princess Isabelle was well on her way to becoming a ferrous version of a much less polite bit of anatomy.

“I’m not entirely sure this is a prudent meeting for me to accept, Miss French,” said Gold, gathering his things.  “If you intend to revise the terms that your father has negotiated -- if you even have the authority to do so -- then my interests would be better served by having my full legal team present.”

“That is your prerogative, of course,” she agreed, somewhat quieter and definitely vexed.  “Shall we reschedule for tomorrow?”

“No, I’m due back in London on Tuesday.  Perhaps if you called my secretary she could pencil you in after the holidays?” he suggested.  “Or failing that, I should be back in Avonlea for the General Assembly.”

“The General Assembly will be too late!” she gasped.  “Mr. Gold, I arranged to meet with you today because I care very deeply about the future of this nation.  You wish to move your business here, and I wish to speak to you--”

“Informally,” he spat. It was definitely an accusation. “By ambushing me. Your strategy leaves something to be desired.”

“I believe you’re confused tactics with strategy,” snipped Belle.  “My strategy is to show you that there could be a more lucrative, less disreputable outcome that pleases both of us.  My tactic is to catch you out in private, to ascertain your general interest before I am obliged circumvent my own father’s authority and make a fool of myself before Parliament.”

Gold couldn’t help himself. He laughed.

“Well, Miss French,” said Gold, “You’ve piqued my curiosity, if nothing else.  Let’s hear it.”

Gold could have sworn he saw her twitch.  Maybe she wasn’t as certain of herself as she wanted him to believe.

“Yes, well…” began Belle.  “As you undoubtedly know but have been too polite to mention, my father has the business sense of a turnip.  Given his druthers, he’d rather spend his days designing new features for the gardens.”

“It had not escaped my attention,” he admitted.

“To that end, the sale of his urban property along the river will merely line his pockets with enough coin to abate his ogreish creditors for a few months,” she continued.  “I have no interest in seeing properties that have been maintained at great cost to the taxpayer sold off for a water feature.”

“My offer was a fair one.  It would be enough for several years of lavish spending and terrible bookkeeping once the additional revenues my business will bring are factored in,” he said in his own defense.  “Your father has the means to live a lifetime of modest luxury, with plenty left to bequeath to an ambitious daughter.”

“ _I’m_ ambitious?” scoffed Belle.  “Are you not the one they call the Miser of the Square Mile? The papers say you clawed your way to the top of the heap in Scotland, and then steam-rolled your way south.  Whereas, by comparison, I’ve barely been able to keep an Environmental Cabinet together long enough to install a new solar panel.”

“Oh, so you’re the poor, put-upon heir to a small kingdom who’s just barely surviving on her allowance?  Is that the tale you’d like to spin for yourself -- that you are David and I Goliath?” Gold snarled back.

She reared back to argue with him, but Gold kept going.  He wasn’t about to sacrifice the high ground while he had it.

“I cede your point about your father.  His reputation precedes him,” he admitted. “But truly, Princess, what the Prince Regnant does with his money is no concern of mine.  Nor, in any sane family, would it be any concern of yours.”

Belle shook, her loose curls bobbing and catching the light.  God, but she really was beautiful in her fury.

“It could be DarkCastle’s concern,” she said at last.

“I… beg your pardon?”

“Well, the thing about a sale is that it’s all very final.”

“It’s forever,” he agreed.

“Yes, and as my family are responsible for several very large estates, I hope you’ll appreciate that we are always searching for capable caretakers.  What I’m proposing is to lease the buildings to you, with the first five years’ rent to be paid in advance, and that sum to be invested by DarkCastle -- waiving your fees -- to provide an annuity for my father. A real annuity, that doesn’t place an additional burden on the populace.  Let him spend that on his flowers.”

“The rates would have to be substantially lower than market standard,” he thought aloud.  

“Or the term substantially longer,” she replied. Her tone almost sounded friendly for the first time since she’d arrived.  “Fair market rate today might look like a genuine bargain 10 years down the road. Or 20.”

“Or 100,” said Gold, thinking further ahead.

“That’s putting the cart before the horse a bit,” the Princess replied.  Whatever warmth he’d stirred in her before, she’d slipped her cool and prim tone firmly back in place.

“I think you’re forgetting that I didn’t come here to rent,” Gold batted back.  “If leasing is an option, there are certainly other locations to consider.”

“Do any of them also include this?” she asked, sickly sweet as she slid a packet of papers over the table to him.

He read the first line.  Then he read it again.  Gold blinked.

“A new hospital, accessible housing, a refurbished school… It’d be bloody expensive,” he warned.

“Yes,” agreed the Princess.  “We’ll need the revenue from DarkCastle to materialize, and to attract additional enterprises further down the road.”

“Additional enterprise sounds like double-speak for competition,” he pointed out.

Miss French just shrugged.  “I can guarantee you rights of first refusal for many of the commercial properties outlined in Section 2.  Rent from my father -- fill up your offices with clerks and brokers and janitors and tradesmen, some of whom will certainly be our citizens glad for the work, and when we revitalize, you have my word, there will be a place for DarkCastle in our future.”

“I don’t run a charity,” he cautioned.

“I don’t expect you to,” she replied.  “They don’t talk about BlackRock and Vanguard for their charitable contributions, and DarkCastle is in many ways more esoteric than them.  But your clients do have deep pockets, and they do find it convenient to donate to the odd charitable cause.”

“They find the accolades convenient,” muttered Gold. “And the tax breaks.”

“Trustee to the St. Gideon Royal Children’s Hospital rather rolls off the tongue,” said the Princess.  “And I am under the impression that you find our grossly outdated tax codes highly desirable to your current business model.”

“Now there’s a loaded statement if I ever heard one.”

“It’s true,” she replied, meeting his gaze and refusing to back down.  “In the course of my lifetime, the rich have only gotten better at making money, while the poor and working classes have struggled.  I’m not insensate to the reasons why you wish to do business in Avonlea – we’re small enough that we meet our people’s needs with relative ease, and our titled class has had a monopoly on law making since before the Renaissance.  I know, too, that I have benefited more than most from that system as it exists today.  But it doesn’t change the fact that we do need progress in Avonlea.”

“Or that the first step toward progress is very often money,” he quipped.

“The difference is, I’d like DarkCastle to work with me.  I see no reason why both our visions shouldn’t thrive.  The Danes have done well enough.  And the Dutch.  We could do it together.”

And suddenly, Gold could see it.  Miss French -- he almost slipped and called her Belle -- had a plan for Avonlea.  And, with DarkCastle capital joining forces with her merry band of Parliamentary progressives, Gold saw all the hallmark signs of major windfall.

Still, she was idealistic. Young.  Had thoughts -- brilliant thoughts, some, but foolhardy ones as well -- about how a constitutional monarchy ought to steward their holdings for the national interest.  He’d have to speak to the Prime Minister, to ensure the level-headed realists of the world got their slice of the pie too.

They poured over the details for a further two hours, and all the while he sipped his tea from the chipped cup.

“I must warn you, however successful we may be, my father won’t like anything about this arrangement,” she said at last.  “Least of all that I went over his head and approached you in private.”

“Yes…” Gold breathed.  “Why… Why did you choose me?”

At that, Miss French got up and stepped away from the table and turned toward the door.  She was halfway across the threshold when she finally spoke.

“Because you’re filthy rich, Mr. Gold,” said the Princess, still not facing him.  “And with or without me, I don't think you have any intention of failing.”

XXXX

When Gold saw her again, it was before the whole of Avonlea’s Parliament.  Like most monarchies, the Prince Regnant’s government was a shambles -- bogged down in old notions and outmoded conventions that did little but increase the national deficit.  Most of their costumes would have been better suited to a BBC holiday special.

But he had to hand it to them - their idea of formal dress hadn’t shifted much in 200-odd years, and the sight of so much splendor in the ornate, dark wood chamber was truly beautiful.  Or would have been, in the context of an oil painting.  As an observer, Gold felt woefully underdressed, and that was not at all a common experience for him.  A trip to Ede & Ravenscroft might have been prudent, but it was too late now.  Besides, it wasn’t as though he’d ever be entitled to wear a red robe with ermine around the collar.

But there was one sight in the grand chamber with which Gold found no objections at all: the Princess wore a gown of golden silk, supported by corsets, petticoats, and a prayer.  The curve of her long neck and modest breast quickened his pulse.

Her father, by contrast, dressed in some sort of doublet with a fur-collared robe and a red cap in place of a crown. Maurice was glaring at his daughter from across the aisle.  Next to the Prince Regnant sat Gold’s man.  His ace in the hole.

Alphonse’s costume looked vaguely militaristic, thought Gold, though he was certain the Count had never served in so much as an honor guard; it was something about the way he flaunted the ceremonial saber at his hip – no one who’d been trained to use a weapon kept fidgeting with it like that.

Alphonse Von Frankenstein, whose seat would soon enough pass to his wayward son Viktor, had capitulated to every one of his lobbyist’s demands.  In the end, Gold hadn’t even needed to threaten him. Not that Princess Isabelle’s plan was a poor one.  Not that he threatened people for fun.  Quite the contrary.  But Gold required certain assurances, and the Count was just the man to give them.

After what felt like an eternity of recitations, bowing, introductions, and even a prayer, Miss French was finally granted her turn to speak.  Her words were measured but passionate, just as he knew they would be, and from the look of the crowd she might even have swayed a few opinions among the moderate factions.  Gold always had been able to read a room.  You had to, to survive his rough upbringing, and business had sharpened his senses.

The Princess was convincing, but it wasn’t enough.  Her words alone could never have been enough – and so Gold squashed down the last scrap of doubt clinging to his decision to approach Frankenstein.

“In conclusion, I put it to the members of the General Assembly and the Cabinet Ministers to vote on a plan that not just enriches the royal family, but the whole of Avonlea,” Belle finished.

“Hear, hear!” cheered a youngish chap near her elbow.  His clothes were likewise outdated.  Gold thought he belonged in a Victorian fashion catalogue.

Those seated around them made a good show of support, but the dissident voices centered on her father were not entirely drowned out.

“In counterpoint,” shouted a man in a feathered cap, “The fiscal conservatives among us would like to stress the insoluble and inalienable right to of a gentleman to own property, and the absolutely right of said gentleman to then sell it.  By what right does the Princess attempt to block her father’s sale? It’s unconstitutional!”

He was a real rabble-rouser, with a moustache like a cow-catcher.  Gold would have to keep his eye on that one.

“He bloody well does not have the right to sell it!” shouted another man.  “Not without the express consent of Parliament.”

“But this isn’t an isolated matter. Isn’t it true that your proposed legislation would nationalize 37% of the royal portfolio?” spat another.

“A portfolio which you have no right to divest during my lifetime!” roared Prince Maurice, piling on.

“Gentlemen!” Belle shouted, raising her voice above the din to little effect.

The Prime Minister spared her a pitiful look, but the spineless old goat didn’t lift a finger to bring his chambers back under control.

“Let her speak!” roared the dapper young man beside her.

Gold’s eyes flashed to his face – handsome, definitely.  His dossier hadn’t identified the boy as a major player, and someone was going to be raked over the coals for that mistake.

The noise in the Assembly died down enough for Belle to continue.

“I find it the height of hypocrisy to expect the taxpayers to support these royal properties, only to have the asset sold with no remuneration or compensation,” she said.  She might as well have been speaking to an empty room by the time that landmine of a sentence finished.

 “The Widow Lucas, who many of you are fortunate enough to know, has – for example – paid nearly 500,000 francs over the course of her life.  That is 500,000 francs in taxes which solely benefit me and my father.  Meanwhile, her contributions to our schools, hospitals, defense, and infrastructure totals only 180,000!”

At the first hint of the word infrastructure, the crowd began to rabble again.  Or perhaps it was “tax” that did it. Gold couldn’t tell.

“And do you know what that sum of 500,000 francs has paid for? The maintenance on historical, privately held property; property such as these buildings, which have nearly been sold out from under us.  One of which has just been supplied with a new roof, despite having been closed to the public and out of use by the family for the last two decades! Surely there should be some avenue before us that does not flagrantly disregard the public trust!” Her eyes were bright and her chest was heaving with the effort of shouting.

“It’s collusion!” bellowed her father, and the rest of the room roared back to life.  “Collusion against the crown!”

His face had gone red, tending toward purple, and he looked like a plum.

In the din, Gold even feared that he’d heard the dreaded T-word thrown out.  If Princess Isabelle’s genuine concern for her country was treasonous, Gold thought, then there really wasn’t any hope for Avonlea.

Gold’s man, Frankenstein, stepped in just then, and brought the argument back in hand.

With a wavering, quiet voice and a lifetime of political equivocation under his belt, the room hushed even as he struggled to stand.  Old Alphonse could always be relied upon to end an argument without really picking sides - they’d want to hear from him.

“It would only be unconstitutional if Princess Isabelle forbade her father from trying to sell.  Instead, he has found himself deprived of a buyer,” said Frankenstein, the words rattling like wind against the window pane as they left his mouth.  “I think we ought to table these talks of reform for a time, and address the more pertinent matter at hand – namely the articles of incorporation and the leasing of associated government buildings to DarkCastle.”

Men on both sides of the aisle cheered for that, just as Gold knew they would, and the Princess was obliged to cede the floor.  She looked livid.  Well, no.  She looked serene and interested in the matters at hand; but Gold had learned the signs, and though she might hide her true feelings from this pack of scoundrels, the same tricks would not work on him.

Frankenstein continued to make his points, wheezing through every syllable.  Polonius couldn’t have dragged it out any longer, but it was all very well said.  And it should be; he’d written the remarks himself. Avonlea would be better off with Belle’s reforms – or something very much like them – but they had no bearing whatsoever on Gold’s ability to do business in the country. He gave his man a quiet nod, and then took advantage of the relative silence.

“Your Royal Highnesses, Lords and Ladies, Gentlemen of the House – with respect, I’m aware that it is not my right to address the Assembly, but I pray you will indulge me for a few moments?” begged Gold with his very snidest European accent.   He sounded a far cry from the wee Glaswegian lad who’d been too thick-tongued to land even a food service job when he arrived in the States.

The Prime Minister gestured for him to continue, and the rest of the House assented.

Slowly, methodically, Gold laid out his plans for DarkCastle.  The bank’s transactions would be taxed very reasonably – almost criminally little, in point of fact, but for a nation the size of Avonlea, even that stream of income would be enough to undertake major transformative works.  With the Princess Isabelle’s proposal to lease property, combined with Prince Maurice’s offer to sell, Gold offered them a soft-ball: a compromise.

No new legislation, no social reforms, and he would take only one of the three buildings that the Prince had offered as permanent headquarters for his wealth management firm.  The other two buildings, suitable primarily as offices and apartments, could be leased under the basic terms Belle had offered, though at substantially lower rates than she’d quoted him.

To Gold’s surprise, the man with the ludicrous moustache was the first to call for a vote, and the handsome boy by the Princess’ side moved to second it.

Gold caught her eye, made brighter by frustration, and nearly took it all back.

He’d expected annoyance or anger, but she only looked sad.  And that, in turn, caused Gold’s ire to rise.

What right did she have to make that mournful look at him? What self-destructive imp had convinced her that guilt would persuade him to bend?  It was absurd. It was ill-deserved.  It was impossible for him to look at her for a moment longer, because her sadness cut him to the core.

She hadn’t got all that she wanted, no, but she’d got a step toward it, and -- as he’d calculated -- she wasn’t about to cut off her nose to spite her face now.  Their conversation had only ever been informal, nothing on paper.  He wasn’’t doing anything wrong.  He hadn’t done.  

If anyone was in the wrong, it was her.  She should have anticipated him.

What he wouldn’t give to see those morose eyes brighten again.  Alas, it was only business.

XXXX

The third time they met, it was entirely by chance.  For months there was nothing; even the Prince had come around to his way of thinking, once the money rolled in.

“Mr. Gold,” said Belle when he made his introductory bow.  “As this is a charitable function, I hadn’t expected to see any of the DarkCastle crowd.”

“I deserve that,” he admitted.  “Though I feel compelled to point out that DarkCastle was St. Gideon’s primary donor this quarter.”

“So they’ll have offered you a seat at the royal table.” Her tone was emotionless.

“Indeed,” said Gold.  “And perhaps, if I’m lucky, the Crown Princess will agree to join me for a dance? I admit, I’m not much of a partner, but I think I could manage a slow waltz.”

That did get a reaction, though it wasn’t the one he’d expected.

“Yes, of course,” she hissed. “The Princess is always pleased to dance with our major donors.”

And then it was the next guest’s turn to make his bows, and Gold was fobbed off down the reception line.  

The evening went as these things always did -- a lot of self-congratulatory speeches, middling food, and free-flowing drinks.  Despite her coldness, Belle hadn’t lied about the dance -- it seemed that every time he looked for her, she’d been swept away by another man.  Many were quite old -- and poor Alphonse Von Frankenstein could barely keep upright long enough to kiss her hand -- but eventually the room quieted, the guests were seated, and the Chief of Medicine gave a brief speech.

They even trotted out two bald-headed children, for the look of the thing, dressed in drab, green gowns that contrasted terribly against the cream-colored table clothes and golden glow of the candlelight.  In an unexpected and probably unscripted show of affection, the Princess got up to take their hands. The children clearly knew and adored her, and Gold made a mental note to add another zero or three to his next donation.

But soon enough, the posturing and pontificating ended, and Gold was obliged to offer the Princess his arm and escort her to the table.  They’d put that on his protocol sheet – that, as a major donor, he’d been given the option to partner with the Princess for dinner.  Apparently they hadn’t told her – or at least had left his name out – because she went rigid and quiet as soon as he touched her.  Sandwiched between him on her right and her father on her left, Miss French passed the first two courses in silence.

It was infuriating.  Gold didn’t buy into the fairytale of the European legacies, nor did he bow and scrape for royal acknowledgements or invitations to derbies.   He controlled the money.  People who just 100 years ago might have been Kings or Queens came to him on bended knee, begging to be made rich again.  But this woman -- who managed to be consistently brilliant and generous and sensible with everyone else -- couldn’t spare him even half a smile.

He wouldn’t have cared so much if he couldn’t see the nervous tick of her pulse through the skin of her throat.  A second look showed a hint of red around her eyes, too.  And so, it was with great fortitude and self-control that Gold clenched his fist and did not extend a comforting hand.

“It’s a nice party,” he said, when he couldn’t take the silence any longer.

“Yes, it is,” she said in that same toneless voice.

“And this spring has been unseasonably warm,” he added helplessly.

“Yes, our neighbors in Genovia will be very happy. A warm spring bodes well for the pear harvest.”

Gold was spared the further indignity of clawing small-talk from the stone when the Prince Regnant rose to his feet and raised a glass.  He glanced down at Monsieur Moustache to his left – a Marquis whose family had seen six generations in exile from the egalitarian horrors of France -- and the room quieted.

“Hear, hear -- we’ve had a wonderful turnout this year.  Thanks to our wonderful donors, we will soon be able to undertake major improvements to the hospital and its grounds.  As you all know, Gideon is the patron saint of our dear Avonlea.  A knight who journeyed East on Crusade to join the Franks, Gideon liberated the Holy Land and ably defended the Kingdom of Jerusalem.  He, like many of his brethren, first traveled South on pilgrimage to the Vatican before returning home, and His Holiness, Pope Urban II, blessed Gideon for his sacrifice. Urban awarded Gideon a senior position in a newly-built Abbey.  Our Abbey.  Gideon went on to safe-guard Christianity in this region, and it was his hand which anointed our first Regnant -- my great-great-great and then some grandfather, Prince Geoffroi Capet -- descendant of the great Charlemagne!

“And so, it is my honor as sovereign, to announce that this year’s contribution from the Royal Society shall be a commemorative bronze depicting the coronation of our founder by the blessed St. Gideon, to take point of precedence in the Reflection Garden. Our dearest hope is that the sight of this uplifting, most holy, scene shall lift the spirits and improve the morale of patients for years to come!”

The room roared with applause, much to Gold’s surprise.  Out the corner of his eye, he caught Belle’s gaze once more.  To say she looked chagrined would be putting it mildly.  Her hands came soundlessly together once, then twice, then stilled to clenched fists at her side.

“Even the damn doctors are cheering,” she whispered so quietly that he almost thought he’d imagined it.

“I thought the Chief of Medicine mentioned something about a new MRI?” he whispered back.

She squared her shoulders, sat up straight, and refused to look at him for the rest of the service.  This time, when she trembled, Gold knew it was from rage.

XXXX

At their fourth meeting, things began exactly as Gold intended.  He arranged to be present at a society luncheon in memoriam of the late Marquis du Gaston – old Monsieur Moustache himself.  He’d endured two hours of remarkably lucid conversation with the Contessa De Vil, a frankly mind-numbing introduction to the new Marquis (who spoke little of his father, but extensively of his hunts), and then followed the Princess into the rose garden at the earliest opportunity

“Miss French,” he said, affecting a tone of surprise. “How fortuitous.  Actually, there is something I wanted to discuss with you -- can you spare a minute?”

“I’m not entirely sure I can stomach your particular brand of conversation this afternoon, Mr. Gold,” she said icily.

“That brand being?”

“Lies, unfortunately.”

Ouch.  He tended to work in words with as much care or more as he spared for dollars and cents, but he didn’t think he’d done anything of late to merit that accusation.

“I have never lied to you, Belle,” he said at last.

“No, I suppose not,” she sighed. “You just allowed me to believe we had an understanding, and at the nearest possible opportunity, you cut me out of the equation. But then, a liar is no real master of his trade if he doesn’t manage to tell the truth without really committing himself to anything.”

“You and your father both got what you wanted that day,” said Gold.  “I’d have hoped, with a bit of time and distance, you would see the wisdom and necessity of a compromise.”

“You call that a compromise?” she laughed.  The sound turned sour quickly.  “Do you know, since the leases were signed, not a single motion for tax reform has been proposed?  That not one iota more oversight has been added to the royal accounts? You got exactly what you wanted, and my father’s quite pleased, but here I am -- now lacking both carrot and stick -- and Avonlea’s schools are literally crumbling as we speak.”

“Luckily for me, what I wanted to discuss with you was a first attempt at a peace offering.”  He drew a green and blue business card from his breast pocket and presented it to her.

“What’s this?” she asked warily, not extending her hand.

“Well, I thought at first that I’d send a few dozen roses, but a little bird told me that Princesses prefer solar panels,” he quipped.  “They are somewhat more difficult to present than a nosegay.”

“This is… I don’t understand…” It was the first time he’d seen her rendered speechless.

“This is the number of an associate of mine.  He’s a dreadful bore, but Anton’s company is at the cutting edge of green technology.  Call this number -- that is his personal number -- and schedule a meeting.  An anonymous and frankly enormous grant has been gifted to Avonlea, under the direct control of the Crown Princess and her Environmental Cabinet.  Though, I have to say, if the Crown Princess wants a school, she may have to wait for her birthday.”

He couldn’t help himself, he grinned.  Belle simply stared at him.

“That… that’s too generous,” she stammered.  “I couldn’t  -- we can’t!”

“Take it,” Gold said, tucking the card into her palm.  “And try to think a little more kindly of me, if you can.  I know you take your obligations seriously. I know you wanted faster change.  But you’ll get there -- I can tell by the way you set your jaw in an argument and refuse to bend.  Avonlea’s lucky to have you, and I hope - in some, small way - that this helps you to feel as though you’ve done your duty by them.”

“Duty is everything to me,” she said, trembling again.

“But not to your father. I do see it -- the whole room applauding a statue when they really need a machine.”

“I love my father,” she said reflexively.

“Then you’re a dutiful daughter as well,” Gold continued.  “We’re alike, you and I.  The job is everything.  Not everyone understands.  Your father does not, I think.”

“To my father…” Her voice had gone soft, and a little husky.  Almost rough.  After a false start, she tried again.  “To my father, his civic duty is simple.  Wear the crown, open Parliament, and sit for portraits.”

“You don’t see it that way,” he said.

“I can’t,” she whispered.  “And it can be exhausting, but… But duty, and a real obligation to the people, means doing what’s in their best interest, and setting aside distractions.”

“Then you accept my gift?”

She stared openly at him for a beat, but nodded at least.  

“Not just out of a sense of obligation, I hope,” said Gold.

She took a deep breath before answering him.  “Not only obligation, anyway. Duty is… layered.  It’s complicated.  It’s only when you’ve shucked away all the ceremony and pomp that you can puzzle out the meaning.”

“And only with a lot of hard work and lonely nights that you make any progress,” he whispered, suddenly sad on her behalf.

“I had to try,” said Belle, brushing an invisible crumb from  her skirt.  “There are few enough monarchs left in the world whose policies and actions actually make a difference to their citizens.  Some are despots, some are theocrats, and some are merely warming a seat.  But I had to try.  You do understand that that’s why I approached you that day? It wasn’t to usurp the throne, like I know they’re all saying.

“Anyone saying that has been wise enough not to say it to me,” he assured her. “And, for what it’s worth, It’s plain to see that you don’t intend to merely warm your seat.”

“I am not sure I intend to sit at all,” joked Belle.  Her eyes went wide, and she covered her mouth.  “I should not have said that. I apologize.”

And just like that, the spell was broken.  The Princess had returned, and Belle -- Miss French -- had retreated back into one of her many layers of duty.

XXXX

A week passed, and he didn’t know that he needed to see her again until it was too late.

“What the bloody hell is this?” swore Gold, throwing down the offending society pages.

Princess Isabelle of Avonlea Engaged to Marry Marquis du Gaston.  The unfathomable words were splashed across the top of the news sheet, mocking him with their finality.

Not even in his wildest fantasies had the image of Belle dressed in white, a ring on her finger, an arm wrapped around her side, entered his mind.  And now, with the irrefutable evidence that such a man would exist, it had to be him.  Some puffed up Marquis whose title meant less than the paper it was printed on, but whose great-great-so-and-so had been the inbred progeny of a genuine Habsburg, could never deserve her.  He’d be a paper man – not the ally she needed in her battle for reform.  Not like him.  Gold knew how to fight and win.

He picked the paper back up only to tear it in half.  Mrs. Potts was then obliged to tape it back together again, so that he could read it again.

Princess Isabelle of Avonlea Engaged to Marry Marquis du Gaston: Rumors are circulating that a very senior member of the royal family hinted at an announcement in the coming weeks. Adding fuel to the fire, an anonymous source reportedly saw Gaston leaving Harry Winston’s on the Avenue Montaigne. The Marquis, an avid sportsman, recently lost his father.  In a period of so much tragedy, the whole world will soon be rooting for these two love birds to have a beautiful wedding….

But Gold had read enough.  He needed to be boarding a plane.  He needed to speak with his concierge.  He needed a diamond big enough to shame Queen Elizabeth, and he needed all of it immediately.

XXXX

Belle hadn’t the least idea what all the commotion was outside the cancer ward at St. Gideon’s, but any amount of alarm in a hospital was bound to bode ill for someone.  Adopting a tone of total calm, she raised her voice and continued to read for story time.

“In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.  In two straight lines they broke their bread--”

SLAM.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I couldn’t stop him. He insisted--”

“What in the world?” Belle gasped, rising from her seat and turning around.  Rumford Gold was standing in the door, a harried-looking nurse in his orbit, and a newspaper clutched in his hands.  He looked as wild and disorderly as she’d ever seen him.

His long, graying hair hung haphazardly around his face, as though he'd recently pushed it back only to have it shake loose again. His suit, so often black on  black, now contained shades of midnight blue and dark maroon.  She thought he even might have been holding his gold-handled cane on the wrong side.

“Mr. Gold, what--”

“Marry me,” he blurted.  His accent was so thick, she thought she misheard him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Marry me, instead of that Gaston bloke.  I’ll fund it all -- the hospitals, the schools, the roads, the tax reform.  We’ll do it together, just don’t… Just don’t go off with some toff.”  He shoved an unmarked, velvet box toward her.

“I’m not… Do you mean the Marquis du Gaston?” she choked.  “The one with the Adam’s apple like a chestnut?”

Without answering, he pried open the lid and presented her with a pale, blue stone surrounded by diamonds the size of elderberries.  It looked broad enough to fit across two knuckles.

“Mr. Gold, I--”

“You hate it. That’s fine, we can exchange it for another.  This was the best one they had on short notice at Sotheby’s, but I’m sure we can--”

“Mr. Gold!” Belle all but shouted.  “I’m going to have to insist that we step outside and continue this talk privately.”  

She glanced hastily behind her at the pack of ill and now agitated children.  As he registered the two dozen or so curious eyes, some of them quite sunken and old before their time, Gold’s bravado faded and she caught the first signs of embarrassment.

“I’ll take that, Miss,” said the nurse, and Belle gladly handed off her copy of Madeline.  The nurse very nearly pushed them out the door.

Belle grasped Gold firmly by the elbow and dragged him toward the nearest exit.  To her shame, she forgot about his cane for the first few steps, and he nearly stumbled a bit before she slowed her gait.

“What the hell was that supposed to be?” she groaned, leading him into a private nook of the courtyard.

“I want you.” He said it so simply, as though he was telling her the time.  

Belle waited to hear more, but nothing was forthcoming. Eventually, a pale blush colored his cheeks, but his eyes remained intense. Hungry.  There wasn’t a hint of deceit in them, and that might have been a first too.

“But.. Why?” asked Belle, her head still reeling.

For another long moment, Gold said nothing.  

“Right, I’m going,” Belle said.  She took a step away.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurted.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Generous,” he continued.  “Kind.”

“I--”

But now that he’d started, Belle found that he was unable or unwilling to stop.

“You take your work seriously and you don’t care that it’s hard, that you didn’t have a choice in it -- you do it because it’s what you need to do to sleep at night,” he carried on.  “And he’s not good enough for you.  Your Marquis, whatever he says, he’s not enough.  Not to say that I am, but there’s nothing he can give you that I won’t exceed.  I’m the logical choice, so please—please give me a chance to make my case.”

“I am not engaged to Gaston,” Belle insisted.  “I don’t know who put that idea into your head, but it’s all wrong.  Gaston is… well, he’s just awful.  I mean, really -- Gaston?”

“Not engaged?” breathed Gold.

“Not engaged.” She shook her head.

“But you could be,” he said, putting forth the ring again. “I never wanted a title or thought much of the concept of monarchy as a whole. It seemed an awful scam all my life -- a system built to keep the likes of me out.  I thought the whole institution was outdated and irresponsible, languishing like your father.  But then I met you, and Belle -- you don’t need to be a Princess to do wonderful things, but you are, and if anything it makes you stronger. We could do great things together. We could--”

“No,” Belle said.

“No?” he repeated back.  

“No, thank you,” she said with as much poise as she could muster, given the circumstances.

“And… that’s it?” He looked angry.

“I don’t know what more to say,” said Belle.

Gold swore, then mastered himself.  Only the barest tremble betrayed the anger and humiliation brewing inside.

“Well, Your Royal Highness, I apologize for wasting your time,” he said through clenched teeth.  “Of course you’d never consider a bastard from Glasgow when you could have the son of someone whose pedigree goes back to good old days of kissing cousins.”

“I am not marrying Gaston,” Belle hissed.  She didn’t know why she was still defending herself. Didn’t know why she was still here, where anyone could walk by.  Anyone could be listening.

But Gold was past hearing, and so solved the problem for her.

“No, but it will be one of them,” he glowered. “You people -- you hide behind your titles and traditions talking about duty and progress, but the only thing you care about is consolidating power.”

Gold tried to push past, but Belle caught him around the middle of his chest and held him fast.

“That is not true,” she cried, reflexively leaning into his chest.  “That is not true, and it’s not fair, and you know it.  When did you ever -- when did I ever hint that I wanted to… You can’t just spring this on me and then expect--”

“Yes, my expectations were unfair and unreasonable,” Gold seethed.  “That’s the problem -- never you.  Not your snobbery.”

“Gold!” she pleaded.  “I am trying to explain--”

“You’ve said more than enough.  Good day, Princess.” And then he tore away from her and stalked off.

She didn’t know what to make of it, really, but she hadn’t expected to see him again. There was an air of finality about everything, and he certainly hadn’t seemed keen to speak with her in the garden.  So that evening, when he was still in Avonlea, she began to wonder if he was meant to be her personal albatross.  

“Mr. Gold, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Is it?” he asked with rather less civility.

“The orphans appreciate it.” Belle said, trying a new approach.  “I understand that DarkCastle donated a large shipment of winter coats and blankets.”

“Yes, well…” muttered Gold, “Donating goods is a better investment than cash where the Royal Society is concerned.”

“We wouldn’t want the children to end up with a bronze bust of Great-Aunt Melisende,” she agreed, and cracked a smile.  It wasn’t funny -- not the reality of it, anyway -- but just then both she and Gold shared a secret laugh at the absurdity of it.

She wanted to ask him about what happened before -- to find out, with the benefit of reflection, if he’d changed his mind.  Whether or not he regretted it.  Whether or not… whether or not he’d meant any of it, or if it was all just more lies.

But her father chose that moment to begin his speech, and Belle was obliged to sit quietly and smile at the small band of children whose parents hadn’t been able to care for them.

They’d done up the ward with all the usual bits and bobs – linen tablecloths that cost hundreds of francs, and then required hand-washing and steam-pressing to maintain; floral centerpieces imported from Holland; wine sent directly from France, at enormous expense, when half of them wouldn’t have known the difference between Montrachet and Moscato..  

And even if they had, how arrogant – how self-obsessed with their own good taste!  It was like living with a pack of children, always trying to one-up each other with their conspicuous consumption and waste.

“Speaking of children,” laughed her father, catching Belle’s attention again.  “We are hoping to hear the sound of little feet in the palace again! I had thought we would wait, but as the man of the hour is here among us -- whose generous donation has allowed us to revitalize and reframe the portraits on the third floor -- it gives me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my daughter, Princess Isabelle, to the Marquis du Gaston!”

The whole bottom fell out of her world.  With the sound of blood in her ears, her vision reduced to a single point, Belle felt her father wrap a hand around her arm and jerk her to her feet.  A hot, bulky arm wrapped over her shoulder, and people were cheering.  It was all wrong.  Entirely, completely backwards.  And every bit of her training and breeding told her to stand there and smile until they had a chance to speak about the matter privately.

The only coherent thought she managed was that Gold had been right.  And now it was too late.

As the world rushed back into focus around her, Belle looked helplessly throughout the room.  Faces were smiling, laughing.  Eyes were bright.  But not Gold’s.  She caught his gaze almost accidentally, and though she might have expected to see jealousy or hatred, all she found was regret.

He left without saying goodbye.

The night dragged on, and Belle barely knew what to say.  Congratulations were given, champagne was poured, and she very much wanted to run home and cry.  It wasn’t until an aide-de-camp ushered them into a makeshift sitting room that she found some semblance of a voice again.

And what a voice. It was as though a whole life-time of thoughts and feelings came pouring out. She shouldn’t have done it. Should have remained aloof and kept her words plain, because it was clear by the way they were looking at each other that Gaston and her father thought her sudden effusion of emotion was the result of high spirits and histrionics.

“I don’t see the problem,” said Maurice.  “You need to be married and produce an heir for the good of the nation.  Gaston is an excellent match -- his people take their styling from a title bequeathed by Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I, and there is very good evidence that before that--”

“Papa,” said Belle, cutting him off and shrugging the Marquis’ hand off her back. “I am not marrying him. We are not engaged.”

“Of course not, darling,” purred Gaston.  She only came up to his mid-chest, and felt rather like a baby bird when she had to throw back her head to look up at him.  “Sir, with all respect, I have not formally asked the Princess yet.”

Then, right there in the headmaster’s office at the orphanage, he got down on one knee and pulled out the dreaded small box with a telltale HW embossed on it.

The situation did not improve from there.

XXXX

“And tonight’s top story: a constitutional crisis in the micro-nation of Avonlea.  This small city-state stands in company with Genovia, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, and Monaco as one of the tiniest nations in Europe.  But this little country made big waves this week, as Crown Princess Isabelle went before Parliament and threatened to abdicate--”

“Turn that up!” snapped Gold, his attention laser-focused on an image of Belle dressed in her golden gown.

Mrs. Potts was quick to obey him, but not quick enough.

“Shut up. Shut up!” he shouted, despite being alone in the room.  Gold snatched the control from her hand and drove up the volume until it was impossible to miss anything.

Abdication in Avonlea… government in turmoil…. the end of one of Europe’s great monarchies.  The news anchor’s editorial concluded abruptly, and the scene shifted to an off-center video shot outside the Palace gates.

“Princess Isabelle! Princess Isabelle!” the reporters bayed.

“Is it true that the Marquis du Gaston broke off your engagement due to your romantic relationship with Rumford Gold?”

“Did you cheat on the Marquis?”

“Why go ahead with the engagement announcement if you never intended to marry?”

“Is it true that the Prince Regnant can legally arrange your marriage according to Avonlea’s constitution?”

They continued like that, a never-ceasing deluge of questions that overlapped and wound together until they became merely noise.  Belle had her stony mask of indifference firmly in place.

Gold almost winced when it became clear that she actually intended to talk to the damn vultures.

“It is true that the Prince Regnant has the right to offer the Crown Prince or Princess’ hand in marriage to a fellow peer,” she said in that same disaffected voice she’d used to refuse his proposal.  “That law was drafted in 1390, by Prince Henri Bourbon d’Avonlea, and was never challenged.  However, no reigning Prince has issued a decree under this law since 1658. It is my belief that to have a truly modern and egalitarian society, laws like this -- relics of a bygone time -- need to be changed.  To that end, I have been a constant voice for progress in my office as Crown Princess.  On the matter of my abdication… if that is what it takes to bring Avonlea forward, into a new era, then I am prepared to take that step.”

“But...” shouted a dozen voices at once.

“As to the rumors about my personal life,” she continued, as they mobbed closer to mic her, “I will issue no comment at this time, and ask only that my privacy be respected.”

“But isn’t it true that a photo of you and the founder of DarkCastle embracing surfaced shortly after your wedding announcement?” said one of the more noticeable voices in the crowd.

“Don’t you think that scandals like this show the public exactly how outdate the idea of a monarchy is?” asked another.

He saw the faintest flicker of sorrow cross her face, but Belle had always been quick to master herself.

“No comment,” she said, and then she walked through the palace gate.

Gold’s head was reeling.  It was plain to him, as it would have been to anyone who truly knew her, that the engagement announcement had been an ambush of the first order.  Besides, that, she said she wasn’t engaged, and he believed her.   But she’d just stood there, with that fake smile plastered across her face, and instead of defending herself she was so bloody dutiful about the whole thing!  He really thought she’d just go along with it, though now – barely 24 hours later – he’d no idea why.  Just that, through his bitterness, it had seemed a logical conclusion at the time.

More than anything, he wanted to swallow what was left of his pride, get on a plane, and go.. Go… Go where? He had no purpose. No real hope of persuading her to consider him, when she was already willing to give up everything she loved to avoid a man whose title was nearly as ancient and meaningful as her own.  He’d go just to comfort her, if he thought it would help.  Or to throw money at the problem until it went away, but for the first time he couldn’t envision the numbers and columns that would lead him to victory.

There were the old ways, of course.  He could bankrupt, bamboozle, and bully his way through the Parliament, the Marquis, and Prince Maurice himself if need be.  He could bury them so deep in his debt that they’d never give Belle cause to doubt her place in the world again.

But she’d hate that.  He knew she’d hate it. And worse, she’d resent him for interfering.  Though that thought had never stayed his hand before, this time it did give him pause.  What could he do, really? He’d offered her a way out, and she’d rejected him.  Now she’d found her own escape, though it would cost her dearly, and there was nothing – nothing she would want – that he could possibly offer her.

He’d lost everything, and none of it was even his to lose.

The news coverage continued, with photos of the Prince, the Prime Minister, and accounts of the Parliamentary ramifications if the Princess did go through with her threat.

“But surely the more reasonable solution would be for them to change the law,” said one female presenter.

“Well, it’s a cultural tradition in Avonlea.  They’re entitled to their heritage, as much as any of us,” said the male counterpart.

“There is absolutely no room for an arranged marriage in modern society!” the woman insisted, and they carried on like that for some time.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the incriminating photograph – the one spark of light he’d needed to see – appeared on the screen.

It had clearly been taken through a second story window, but the quality was decent. Not a mobile phone camera, then, but someone with a real lens and a bit of know-how.  Perhaps someone from the press corps had followed Belle to the hospital for a photo op. Or else it was a set-up.

In the picture, she had flung her arms around him and buried her head under his chin.  Her face, on the verge of crying, held an expression of absolute conflict.  Gold, for his part, stared ahead disinterested.  It looked every inch like a lover’s tiff.  If he squinted, he could just make out the shape of the ring box in his fist.

All too soon, the image changed, and Gold quickly pressed the button to rewind and pause the screen.  What had actually happened? He’d been so outraged; he barely registered her parting remarks as he was leaving.

She’d grabbed him. Grabbed him to make him stay and listen to what she had to say.  But the conversation had been pointless. She’d refused – a woman never short of words had said merely no.  No thank you.

But looking at her there, sheltered against his chest, he could only hate himself for letting the moment pass.  A real man wouldn’t have let go again.  Even if she wouldn’t marry him, they might have…

The word friend cut him like a dagger.  He’d never had one before.  It was more than he could have hoped for, and yet he’d still made an ass of himself by asking for marriage.  Everyone knew that those who flew too close to the sun got burned.

When he couldn’t stand to look at the photo any longer, he pressed play again.  The television jumped forward to the live news, and they had moved onto a new segment.  Gold pressed the button to rewind and see what he’d missed.

Part-way through, he spied an image of Belle.  Another candid photo through a window, undoubtedly taken by a paparazzo, this time spying inside the same dining room where he’d met her for the first time.  The details were a bit dark, but she sat at the table, head bowed, while the unfocused shape of Prince Maurice towered over her.

Then he saw it.  With her hands delicately folded around it, nearly cropped out of the frame, there was a tea cup.  A tea cup with a chip in the rim.

“Gladys!” he shouted at Mrs. Potts.

“Yes, Sir?” she answered, panting a bit as she trotted back into the room.

“Call the airport and order my jet.”

XXXX

What happened next was neither quick nor romantic. Belle had moved out of the palace, and with nowhere else to go, she’d landed at her friend Jefferson’s house.  The bloke with the top hat, one of Avonlea’s few honestly-elected MPs.  

Gold had hated him on sight, but he kept that to himself.

After a lot of apologies, she’d accepted his help.  Not in any of the usual ways, and he’d been flatly forbidden from buying-off votes to change that horrid law.  But he was permitted to pay for private security; to bring a civil suit against the Marquis – for if the vile things he’d said about her didn’t count as slander, then there was no justice anywhere in Avonlea; and to continue to fund her charities from his own pocket.  He’d even agreed not to boot Maurice’s meager capital from the DarkCastle fund, though that was thanks as much to Belle as his corporate lawyers.

She was thankful, but in turmoil.  Receptive, but still reluctant to trust.  Even an idiot of his magnitude could see it wasn’t the time to ask for more, and Jefferson shielded her from him at every turn.  He could almost forgive the man his handsomeness as long as he protected her so doggedly.  Still, Gold nearly did a jig when the chap shyly hinted that Viktor Von Frankenstein was his partner in more ways than one.

The weeks turned into months, and the wheels of commerce continued to turn. Parliament continued to avoid the A-word, and Belle did not press the issue.  She wanted to give them time, not hold the nation hostage under thread of abdication.  But if the engagement had been unlawfully broken, she faced extensive legal fees from the Gaston family and the Crown, and so Gold was preparing for all eventualities as thoroughly as his schedule allowed.

He split his time as best he could between London, New York, and Avonlea.  Thank God his transition team had already prepared their offices here; as time passed, there was less and less that required his personal attention abroad.

Then one night, out of the blue, she concluded their evening talk with a gentle kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” she whispered.  “Really, Rum. Thank you for everything that you’ve done.”

“Don’t kiss me because you’re thankful,” he implored.  “Don’t do it for gratitude or some sense of obligation.  I want much from you, Belle, but not that.  Never to be another duty, another chore.”

“I… I want that too.”

That time, he kissed her.  Hard, and hot, and hungry.  He kissed her like no Princess was ever supposed to be kissed – messy and fervent and caring not a fig for public decency.

The next day, she marched into Parliament in a pencil skirt and heels, and told them to make their decision before she made it for them.  They changed the law within 24 hours, and the sheets in 32.

Gold couldn’t believe his luck.  The most beautiful woman in the world – as splendid inside as out – had allowed him to join her in her bedchamber.  The palace was a sight too tense for a private affair, despite the repeal and proposed reforms taking shape in Parliament, but she’d been allowed to relocate to a nearby chalet until the tensions died down.

He didn’t hold with keeping redundant servants, generally, but the speed and efficiency with which her new household – their household, he hoped --  had been established could not be denied.  The staff knew her preferences as well as their own; they knew every stick of furniture, every article of clothing, and ever book.  Good lord, the books.  

He’d researched her education quite early in their acquaintance, and learned that she’d studied literature, history, and languages in Cambridge, Brussels, and Zurich.  Still, he hadn’t equated that to the crate upon crate of books currently being shelved in the chalet library.  In addition to solar panels and schools, he ought to buy her a library.

But all that could wait.  They’d have time for hat – they’d have time for everything.

At present, his hand slid ever upward along the magnificent length of her legs, and her fingers tugged impatiently at the shaggy hair on his head.  She’d worn a lacey, blue dress to supper, and he could feel her nipples hardening through the fabric.

Gold ran his tongue along the roof of her mouth, nipping lightly at her lower lip before descending the column of her neck and laving at her collar bones. Belle moaned, and he nearly came undone.

Lower down, her hands ran over his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, and his finally found the high-cut edge of her panties.

“Are you sure?” Gold groaned, burying his face against her chest.

“Please,” Belle panted. “Please…”

“Please what, Princess?” he teased, worrying her nipple through the lace of her dress.

She answered with a strangled cry, bucking her hips against his wandering hand, and he finally brought his palm around to cup her sex, to give her friction where she so clearly needed it.  

The surrealism of it all, the sheer terror and wonder of the experience, had nearly overwhelmed him more than once this evening. Her warmth, her acceptance, her taste, her sounds… But none of that had prepared him to find her silken panties soaked and quivering as he ran his palm over her mound.

“I want you. I want you, please…” she breathed, finally sliding his shirt off.

He couldn’t have stopped himself then for all the money in DarkCastle.

Her dress and his trousers joined his shirt on the floor, leaving Gold in socks and boxers – a cardinal sin – but one washed away by the image of Belle – beautiful, perfect Belle – wearing only a pair of scrap of dove-gray silk.

“No bra,” he growled, plumping a tender, small breast to his lips.

“No need,” she panted back.  “You don’t… you don’t mind?”

The question failed to register in his brain.

“You don’t mind that they’re small?” she asked again, and it was her self-conscious tone more than the words that finally got through to him.

“Belle, no one who saw you like this could ever find a single flaw,” he promised, peppering a flurry of tiny kisses down her chest.

“You are perfect,” he said, kissing along the lower half of her ribcage now.

“You are the most amazing—“

But whatever else she was, the words were lost in her breathy gasps of delight as he swirled his tongue around her navel and came to suckle at the apex of her thighs.

“Show it to me,” he begged. “Please.”

Belle slid her panties down, and Gold brought them to his nose, refusing to ever let the memory of their smell fade from his mind.  In a moment of pure, inexplicable benevolence, she took advantage of his pause to slip her fingers into her quim and brought herself off for him.

His heart exploded.  It must have done, because when he came back down from the shock, his face was buried between her thighs and she was pleaded with him that she couldn’t possibly come again, only to quiver and convulse and warm his face with liquid.  By the dampness of the sheets beneath them, they had carried on in this manner for much longer.

As she came down from her peak, Gold slid up her body and drew her back to his chest.  Somewhere in the mix his boxers had gone, and he shamelessly pressed himself against the softness of her, desperate for relief. With his arms wrapped around her and her head resting on his shoulder, Gold slid himself between her thighs and rubbed himself through the gap, taking full advantage of the wetness between her lips, but he made no move to penetrate.

She needed to rest for a moment before their second act – he could give her that, but he was no saint.  Greedily, he edged himself along between her legs, plucking at her nipples whenever she looked too fuckable to leave in peace.

Each pinch and tweak elicited a squeal, and soon she was riding the long edge of his cock the same way she’d bucked into his hand.  He twisted his arms, crossing them over her torso and bringing one hand to rest on her mons while the other pressed gently over her throat.  She was effectively trapped against him, and had no choice but to behave and still if she wanted more.

“Are you ready?” Gold asked in a voice too rough to be his own.  He sounded every bit a desperate Glaswegian lad, and not the well-spoken gentleman she’d gone to bed with.

“Please!” she gasped, and he rewarded her with a swat against her sex.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” he tried again.

“Yes!” cried Belle.

Gold didn’t need to hear more, and didn’t wait.  He merely hoisted her top leg, draping it back over his hip and slid into her from behind.  With his fingers at her clit and his lips on her neck, he set a punishing, galloping pace, and when Belle reached back to cup his sack and his arse, the last of his resolve burst.

He came inside her in five, long spasms, filling her up until jissom flooded his fingers outside. As his digits slipped over the mess, he got lucky and sparked a final shudder of pleasure in her.  Gold’s cock stayed hard just long enough for her to draw out her own orgasm, as she pushed shallowly against him – too exhausted to do more than roll her hips.

All they managed were a few lazy kisses and a gentle entanglement of limbs before she lay asleep in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair.  If she heard him, she didn’t let on.  

XXXX

She didn’t see him at all before the wedding.  

That was his idea, the romantic sot.  Belle would have been pleased to elope and save the crown boatloads of money, but when Gold insisted that he would pay for the wedding, she knew her last arguments would likewise fall.

So they’d have it all – the Abbey, the tiaras, the gowns, the carriages, and the cakes.  Yes, cakes. Plural.  They’d been obliged to order three – each a towering monstrosity of sponge and fondant.  Her father even walked her down the aisle, where the red-headed Bishop waited to conduct the ceremony.  Belle wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she knew in 10 years, or 20, or 100, that she might look back with forgiveness and be thankful for his support.

As Gold had pointed out, the Scots were a bit touchy about the subject of Catholicism, but as neither of them expected God to strike the altar with lightning after two thousand years of silence, they said the words and made their vows.  

They’d offered to make him Prince Consort, with the HRH in front of his name and all, but Rum decided that he was now – and would forever be – a Mister.  That she’d consent to being a Gold was more than enough to make him happy.

Of course, the papers had run wild with the story.  They portrayed him as some kind of dark knight, a cradle-robber and a social climber who’d bullied his way into a respectable family with his new money.  Her, they’d called the next Duchess of Cornwall – a homewrecker and a jilt, who’d used and abused the poor Marquis du Gaston.  Then the Americans got ahold of the story, and suddenly he was a modern-day Cinderella, and she some sort of Robin Hood.  Only _The Japan Times_ wished them well, and spoke favorably about the place of prominence she’d given the Imperial family in the seating chart.

They decided, unsurprisingly, to honeymoon in Kyoto.

 

Fin.


End file.
